


space between transgressions

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Submissive!Clint, but everyone's on board, dom!Phil, implications of anonymous/group sex (consensual), so it's not so bad, somewhat possessive behaviour, until later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil spies on Clint's private time (where he visits one of those magical fic-world BDSM clubs) and discovers just why he's so relaxed sometimes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	space between transgressions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jmathieson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/gifts).



> Check the end for spoilery warnings!  
> Beta read by Dunicha <3  
> This is a gift for JMathieson because she asked me to post it!
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in a while, I have about a million WIPs living on my google drive but I've been struggling with Agents of SHIELD jossing all of my Coulson headcanons :/

When he figures it all out, Phil's surprised with himself that it took him so long; the bruises, the docile way Clint so easily accepts orders when he has those bruises, the unexplained departures from base... 

 

Phil trails him when he first thinks he knows what's up, finds Clint ducking into a unmarked doorway and follows him down into a murky basement. Watches a whole show that's beautiful in its way, Clint tied up and blindfolded, an audience rapt as it watches marks struck into his skin. Phil doesn't think he's ever seen something so sweet as Clint's mouth when it opens, wordlessly begging for something to fill it, nor has he heard anything so perfect as the sound Clint makes when he gets it.

 

And then Clint's back at work and none the wiser, except perhaps he is wise to Phil's little adventure with the sly way he looks at him. It's a game either way, and Phil likes nothing more than playing these games with Clint, letting Clint run circles around him before putting a foot down and pulling Clint up short.

 

It's just recon, is what Phil tells himself, just finding out what his asset's up to, making sure he's on top of everything, except he knows, _knows_ it's not that. He was hard then and he's getting hard now, watching Clint on the range with his perfect form, shooting arrow after arrow into target after target. 

 

And Phil's not a good man, so he tells Clint to shoot more, to keep going til Phil says stop, til his aim begins to waver and his muscles tremble under bruise-mottled skin. Only then does Phil say alright, that's enough, and well done, and good work, and Clint makes one of those perfect little sounds in the back of his throat. 

 

It's bad form, and Phil knows he ought to feel guilty, but all he feels is power, a heat burning through his veins and a hot desire to put Clint on his knees and reward him properly.

 

He ought to stop, Phil knows that. Regardless of anything else, Phil shouldn't be doing this, but he can't stop. He goes again and watches, skulking at the back of the small crowd before finding himself at the front and making a blindfolded Clint scream on _his_ strikes, making Clint his even if he doesn't know it.

 

But he does know it, Phil's certain, because Clint’s good at what he does and what he is, so he has to know what Phil's been doing.

 

So when Clint comes into Phil's office one day, months after the first time Phil found himself in that dingy basement, Phil's surprised it's taken so long. 

 

"Coulson?" Clint says. He seems agitated, just back from a short mission which has left him with a black eye and a split lip. He’ll be going to that place again, no doubt, work out the tension of a mission gone badly enough to have ended with so many bruises. Phil adds the trip to his mental calendar alongside a thorough review of what went wrong on Clint’s mission. 

 

"Agent Barton," he replies blandly, since he has to find some place to be a professional, some space between transgressions. "How can I help you?" 

 

Clint waivers before closing the door, turning once he has and fixing his gaze on Phil as he steps up to the desk and slowly goes to his knees. He has a fiery challenge in his eyes, but Phil lets him go, watches til Clint blinks and drops his gaze to the floor. There’s silence for a while before Clint says, “Sir?” 

 

Phil looks him over, hands gripping the edge of his desk, as he considers his options. He could deny everything, feign surprise or outrage, but Clint's always been good, better than most no matter what his reports might say and Phil would be a fool not to think Clint would have figured everything out eventually. He could tell Clint to get up, tell him not to just _do_ things, not without being asked to. Told to. But he doesn’t. Clint’s on his knees for him and it’s a prettier picture than Phil’s ever let himself dream it could be.

 

He gets up slowly, comes around the desk to stand in front of Clint and, on a breath, gently place a hand on the back of Clint's head. He both hears and feels Clint’s shaky exhale.

 

"I should have known you'd figure me out," Phil says, a little sadness colouring his voice because the game is up. Clint's hair is so perfectly soft on the back of his head where it's not coaxed into the contrived mess it is on top. Phil's fingers thread through it unthinkingly, and they tighten when Clint makes a soft sound of pleasure.

 

"Knew it was you," Clint says with his head still down, though moving enough to have Phil's fingers slide through his hair, taking his pleasure like a cat being stroked. "I don't know how but I knew it was you." 

 

Phil slides his hand around to cup Clint's jaw, lift his face to look at him. Clint looks scared, which certainly won't do. "I kept coming back," Phil says. "You were so good. You are so good, Clint." 

 

Clint sighs happily and presses himself towards Phil's hand, and when Phil lets him, he presses even further til his forehead's resting lightly against Phil's hip. Phil feels powerful, a trust not given easily being so cooly handed to him like this, and it comes out in his unsteady breath. "Clint," he says, a warning though Phil’s not sure of what, exactly. Clint whines and presses himself against Phil.

 

He steps back til the desk digs into his ass, and Clint looks up at him so mournfully it breaks Phil's heart. He shifts to one side so he can kneel beside Clint, so their faces are level. The purpleyellow bruising around Clint's eye makes something in Phil thrum with displeasure - Clint's too pretty and too good to be marked so. Phil leans in and brushes his lips over the far edge of the mark, skin tender enough that it must hurt, but Clint doesn’t flinch.

 

"I don't like bruises on your face," Phil says, pulling Clint close and finding that soft hair to run his fingers through once more. 

 

"Sorry, sir," Clint murmurs against Phil's neck, but he doesn't sound sorry, he sounds pleased, and something about the words shot through with such a challenge makes Phil's fingers tighten again.

 

It's not his place, really it's not, and it's not at all the way such things ought to be done, but Phil holds tight and whispers right into Clint's ear as he gives his head a shake. "No more, do you hear me?" 

 

Clint sort of squeaks in agreement as he awkwardly nods in Phil’s grip, and Phil lets go of his hair to wrap his arms around Clint. They stay like that til Phil's knees protest, whereupon he lets go, drawing back to find Clint blushing and smiling, quietly pleased with himself. 

 

It's simple after that. To move on to the logical next step of Clint coming to Phil’s office whenever he's wound up like a rubber band ready to snap. He comes to Phil and Phil puts him on his knees, twists him even more til he's whining from it, pleading for _something_ , anything that his master might give him. 

 

Phil will let Clint stay there on his knees, hands neatly folded behind his back, til he's done reading or writing or whatever thing it is that he pretends takes precedence. Truthfully he gets no work done, and as soon as Clint stops fidgeting Phil will casually wander over, run a hand up Clint's back and cup the back of his neck before praising his patience. Then he’ll tell Clint quietly exactly what he wants Clint to do, and Clint will do it. Clint does everything Phil ever tells him to, and it never stops being a surprise.

 

Phil lets all the bruises fade before he makes new ones, driven by some possessive need to have Clint all to himself anew. Clint pleads for Phil to mark him, as though the bruises and welts are proof of something too terrifying for Phil to really think about yet, when it's so soon, so new. Clint's petulant about it - Phil will fuck his throat til he's choking but won't give him even a tiny lovebite, and Phil knows it's not fair but he _can't_. When Clint's perfect again, black eye faded and the rest of his skin unmarked, Phil relents, covering him with strap marks and muscle-deep bruises before fucking him deep and hard. Clint thanks him, voice earnest but ruined, and Phil's toes curl in terrifying pleasure.

 

Eventually there's a talk, and it's Clint who starts it, which pleases Phil in some undefinable way. He's been so scared to talk through any of this, frightened of breaking this fragile thing that he's increasingly finding himself unable to live without. 

 

They're in Phil’s office eating lunch, Phil always with one eye on how Clint's sitting, having caned the backs of his thighs not twelve hours earlier. Clint leans across Phil's desk to run a finger over the back of Phil's hand before letting it rest with the tips of their index fingers touching, pointing at one another. Clint tells Phil a long list of things he likes and a short one of things he doesn't, and it's obvious that it's a difficult thing to explain, so Phil determines to reward Clint later, since now he knows exactly and precisely how to. When Phil tells Clint what a good boy he is when he's done, Clint flushes and ducks his head, and Phil tells him that he's pretty, too.

 

"M'not pretty." 

Phil runs his finger up and down Clint's hand before putting it back where it was, a mirror of Clint's pointing towards him. "You're beautiful," he insists.

 

Phil gives Clint his own list, though it amounts to: whatever you want, because that's what I live for, except he doesn't say that, not exactly. 

 

And so it goes. There are safewords and parameters, and it's all so freeing in its way, since Phil can truly let go safe in the knowledge that Clint'll stop him if he needs to. But Clint takes it all, only stopping Phil when he's laying it on a little thick afterwards, when he's worrying at the way broken blood vessels bloom so lurid beneath Clint's skin. Clint sits up wincing and pulls Phil close, blinking slowly since he'll be floating for a long while. He thanks Phil and kisses him, tells him it's ok, he doesn't need any more water or grapes or really anything at all, just a rest, a little sleep perhaps. That all he needs is Phil nearby and he’s fine.

 

It's Clint who comes up with the reading thing, and Phil feels silly about it the first few times he reads trashy novels out loud to Clint staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, but it soothes him til Clint either falls asleep or trots off to the bathroom for ointment or to the kitchen for ice. Sometimes Phil will bathe him, but that feels weird for both of them so they don't do it often. Whatever they do, it results eventually in the same thing - the two of them pressed together in bed, aching wrists and sore skin carefully arranged as they fall into pitch dark sleep. 

 

Clint nearly always manages to wake up before Phil, and despite the colours all over his skin and the way he’ll sometimes be limping from something he begged Phil to do to him the night before, he’ll be making them breakfast and singing along with the radio. It’s on one of those mornings that Phil feels the words ‘I love you’ bubble out of him unbidden, frightened of scaring Clint with them, but Clint grins easily before tossing a dishcloth over a bare shoulder still lined with scratch marks. 

“Love you too,” he says easily, leaning over the counter to press a kiss to Phil’s cheek. He turns back to the stove where eggs are scrambling to fluffy perfection, and Phil wonders how he ever got so lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic details (in the most fuzzy way) a really disorganised BDSM relationship which is not properly discussed by the central characters (despite being mutually enjoyable) until a long while after they get into a sexual relationship. So it's not safe, sane and consensual or in any way an endorsement of getting into things in such a haphazard way! And it's not meant to be, either.   
> Let me know if you think I should add any more warnings and I'll add them! I'd rather over-warn than not.   
> Again, the author does not endorse the actions of the characters or believe them to have acted in an appropriate manner.


End file.
